A Chemical Defect
by Willie The Plaid Jacket
Summary: John and Sherlock discuss matters of the heart.


**A/N: I have no idea where this came from. The urge to write hit me and it just went wherever it damn well pleased. My first attempt at 'Sherlock' and I feel I should warn you, I've been reading the original stories lately so this may seem a little more Conan Doyle-ish than Moffat/Gatiss-ish but I very definitely had the series in mind when visualising the characters.  
Summary: John and Sherlock discuss matters of the heart.  
Rating: K+ (one semi naughty word. Not all that shocking)  
**

Sherlock and I returned to Baker Street in the early evening of a clear spring day with ample time to enjoy a leisurely dinner as a reward for solving a kidnapping case that had taken up the two previous days. As neither one of us made particularly excellent cooks, we ordered in a large takeaway and sat in front of the fireplace revelling in a job well done.

Sherlock was in a bright and otherwise enjoyable mood, as was his norm following a case; a state of being that may last a whole several hours before the boredom and restlessness set in. In such times, he can become most conversational and upon this particular occasion we found the conversation drifting towards women, of all things.

Sherlock's dislike of the women I have on occasion brought to the flat is not a secret to me by any stretch, and in light of this fact I decided to question him on his hostility towards them. His answer was most scientific, detailing how I was using these women to merely satisfy my most primal urges and how he would not pretend to show any liking towards them just to make me seem any more desirable. I was unsure of what he meant by the last point but before I could pursue it any further he added that the string of women I led through our door were part of a quest for love that was both pointless and self-destructive. The issue of self-destruction was something I felt the need to redirect towards my accuser but I could not ignore his jibe regarding the pointlessness of love.

This was a concept that I could not come to terms with. Every human vies for love, it is in our nature. It may be difficult, but pointless? How could he not feel the need to be needed, just like everyone else?

"Your first mistake is looking at me as if I were one of them," my companion said, gesturing towards the window, indicating the 'everyone else' of which I had spoken, "which I'm not, and you know that."

"No, you're certainly not." I agreed, raising my eyebrows and looking down into my almost empty bowl of rice, pushing a few pieces around with my chopsticks.

"Then why are you trying?"

I met his gaze once more and paused briefly before continuing, "Just tell me why you find it so hard."

"I don't find it hard, I find it illogical." He replied in the same tone and with the same look he would use when trying to explain the facts of a case that he finds so simple but I cannot grasp. "We all have a limited time on this earth; a limited number of heartbeats and with each second the total number remaining decreases. So why would I want to waste my time on something so meaningless as love?"

"Because it's not a waste of time and it is far from meaningless. It can seem like it sometimes, trust me, but it is one of the few things worth spending heartbeats on." I couldn't stress my feelings enough to him. It was something I had always presumed was taken for granted but to meet someone who not only could not fathom the merits of love, but had no desire to explore them was alien to me.

Sherlock's expression became more measured as he steepled his fingers and rested the tips against his lips. "You've been in love?" He said, more in the manner of a fact he was waiting for me to confirm than as a genuine question.

"Yes."

"And where is she now, assuming it was a _she_?"

"She's somewhere else."

"So it didn't last." He seemed to be missing the point of the argument entirely.

"That doesn't diminish the worth of love..."

"But it didn't last." There was a slight smile playing on his lips as he said it. "You've proven my point. It isn't worth the time, nor, undoubtedly, the effort."

For Sherlock Holmes, that was what it all boiled down to in the end. It was what he measured everything by - work, relationships, chores. Time and effort. In a way I felt flattered that for me to be living with him he must have considered me worth both, but still I was angry that he couldn't understand where I was coming from on this matter.

"So if you were certain that it would last forever, you'd try for love?"

"No." He answered without hesitation.

I was becoming impatient. "Why not?"

"You can never be certain of emotions."

"How would _you_ know?"

"Because I live with _you_." It was not said in an accusatory manner but given as a genuine explanation. "Because I _see_ people. I've seen wives cheat on husbands and husbands murder wives; I've seen friends become enemies; I've seen joy turn to fear and happiness turn to loathing. I've seen every kind of emotion on every kind of person and never can the outcome be predicted. Emotion cannot be relied upon. And love is no different. If anything it is the worst one of the lot precisely _because_ it is so consuming. What came of your love, John? Heartbreak? Misery? Bitterness? Yet you defend it because you believe the price was worth paying. You've been conned out of your time and left thinking you were the beneficiary. I would save myself what others are so willing to throw away."

I won't deny that his words were cutting to some degree. He was right, love had left me feeling miserable and bitter for a time, but his argument hadn't convinced me entirely. One thing Sherlock Holmes could never convince me of was that he was the cold hearted bastard that he appeared.

"You're not as uncaring as you would have everyone – including yourself - think. I've seen you smile and laugh and shout and grumble. That's emotion you know, Sherlock. If you can feel all that, then you're just as susceptible to love as the rest of us."

"Don't count on it." He looked away and appeared to have lost interest in the conversation as he reached for the violin by the side of his chair. But I was determined not to let this go so easily.

"You know what you're real problem is?" Sherlock made no effort to look at me or acknowledge that he was listening any more, but I continued regardless. "It isn't that you think it isn't worth the time. It's that you don't understand it. You can't break it down into defined components like a crime with a means, a motivation and a method. It's not like mixing two chemicals and producing a universal outcome. There is no way to predict it and so there is no way to avoid it. The only way you could think of avoiding it is to avoid feeling at all. Like you said, you've seen the erratic nature of emotions and how they are all so connected. Experiencing any one of them could result in love so best to avoid them all, am I right?"

Half way through my speech he had sat back in his chair once more, violin and bow now resting across his knees, and stared at me intently throughout the rest of what I had to say. Once I finished he continued to look at me in this way for a few brief seconds as if weighing up my argument before pushing it aside, placing his instrument under his chin and saying, "My, John. You're beginning to sound like me."

I smiled. "Does that mean I'm right?"

He smiled also before focusing his attention on the strings. "I didn't say that."

And with that the topic was dropped, the conversation was over, and quietly he began to play.


End file.
